


Lips Like Lilies

by crossingwinter



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chag Sameach everyone if we had a hell I’d be going to it for sure, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Passover, Sex Pollen, Sex Pollen Charoset, am I making Shir HaShirim references in my sex pollen fic? apparently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23604406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: “I brought some flowers,” Rey says with a grin as she hands him the tupperware full of charoset. “They grow in the park by my building and my bees have been going mad for them now that it’s starting to get nice out.”“Can I take your coat?” Rey hands him the flowers, which are deep and purple and look sort of like lilies. They smell unlike anything he’s ever smelled before in his life, heady and rich in a mostly indescribable way. He likes them. He doesn’t usually care about the way that flowers smell, but these ones—these ones he wants to bury his face in.Rey slips out of the coat, and his eyes do the thing he always tries to get them not to do and drip down her form as she throws the coat over the coatrack by the door. Her frame is wiry, strong, her breasts small, and her ass in those slacks are perfect and round. Ben swallows.Keep it in your pants. You’re not gonna help anything if they see you looking at her like this.How is tonight different from every other night?On all other nights, Ben Solo does not get laid even once.  Tonight, he gets laid twice.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 151
Kudos: 748
Collections: Jewish Reylo Fics, Sex Pollen to the Rescue





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jeeno2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeeno2/gifts), [Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard/gifts).



> um....chag sameach?
> 
> except to jeeno and shep who made me do this.
> 
> i can't believe i did this. i can't believe there are two chapters.
> 
> thanks to walkingsaladshooter who beta'd this even though she's moving tomorrow.

My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to browse in the gardens and to pick lilies.

— Shir HaShirim, Chapter 6

“You’re letting her bring the charoset?” Ben asks in complete and utter shock. His mother has never in her life let anyone bring the charoset. The recipe was her own mother’s, and likely her mother’s mothers, and when Rey had looked up “Passover Food” to offer to bring something, it had been the first thing she’d asked if she could bring. “It looks easy enough,” she’d said with a smile. “And that way I don’t have to worry about anything cooking anything wrong. All natural ingredients.”

He’d told her that it was unlikely his mother would forgo her own mother’s recipe, told her that his mother would likely insist that Rey not worry about bringing anything at all. Except his mother had missed that memo.

“She keeps her own bees, Ben,” his mother says, and he can practically hear her shrug over the phone. “I doubt anything I could make could compete with home-made honey.”

Which is how Ben knew his mother was up to something. “We’re not dating,” he tells his mother firmly. “Just because I invited her to seder—”

“I don’t think you’re dating,” his mother replies with the tone of voice of a woman who clearly thinks her only son is dating his passover guest. “But I’m getting old and I’ll take all the help I can get. Rey offered, so—”

“I invited her because she doesn’t have her own family to do holiday things with,” Ben growls. Who cares that Rey’s not Jewish, and had mumbled a half-hearted something about Easter when Ben had first met her. She always gets a little closed off around family holidays because she’s never had a family.

So Ben had invited her to Pesach. Because you’re supposed to invite people over, those in need, those in want. That’s what the commentaries in the Haggadah always say. And of course his mother had gone and read too much into it—the way she always does—and is probably already emailing with rabbis about drafts of a fucking ketubah.

Worse: she’d like Rey. She’d like Rey a lot. Everyone likes Rey. It’s a miracle Rey likes  _ him _ . God knows no one else does, but Rey had given him the sweetest smile, bright eyes blinking back tears and a soft thank you that he hadn’t really known what to do with because no one ever gives him soft, heartfelt thank yous. 

It’s a miracle Rey likes him, but he also knows that she probably doesn’t like him the way he likes her. That’s why it stings so much when his mother thinks they’re dating. He knows it’ll never happen, has been trying to wrestle some corner of his brain into submission about how it’s never going to happen and when he’s reminded that it’s never going to happen... well, he gets grumpy, which is better than getting mopey he supposes.

“That was very sweet of you, dear,” his mother tells him and once again, he can hear that tone that says  _ I expect grandkids by the end of next year. _

“Bye mom,” he says pointedly.

“See you Wednesday. Seven o’clock.”

“Seven o’clock,” he says and hangs up.

He rolls his eyes as he thumbs over to his text messages and sends Rey a quick note.  _ You’re good to go for the charoset. I’d bring a lot of it.  _

Rey had sent him a reply that was full of thumbs up and smiley faces and honey pots and bee emojis, and he rolls his eyes again. Emojis are stupid. But he knows that Rey is happy and is probably googling the best charoset recipes she can find. He imagines the smile on her face, the way she’s probably tucking her hair back behind her ears as she researches, and smiling.

He sighs.

At least she’s probably smiling.

—

Ben’s not usually early to things, but he’s early to seder. He had promised his dad he’d help him get ready, which he supposes mostly means being a buffer for mom. His mom always gets a little intense around passover. Lots of food preparation, and clearing the house of chametz—Lando buys dad’s whiskey collection every year for a dollar and then threatens not to sell it back as payback for the  _ Falcon _ —and preparing to host a seder or two.

But it’s a small seder this year. Threepio’s recovering from his gall bladder surgery so he and Artoo are out, Lando’s on a business trip, Chewie had difficulty coordinating travel with Lumpy’s easter plans, so it’s just him, Rey, his parents, and Uncle Luke. 

No wonder his mom thinks he is gonna marry Rey. 

Thank god Rey had agreed to come because he really was going to need a buffer between him and his uncle.

“So this girl who’s coming,” his dad begins, giving Ben a look over the top of his glasses. Great. Dad thinks he’s gonna marry Rey too. 

“She’s a friend, dad.”

“A friend or a,” Han drops his voice down, “friend.” Ben glares and his dad holds up his hands defensively. “All right, all right.”

“You can tell mom that there’s nothing between me and Rey. Nothing.” The one-two punch of both his parents is more than he can manage calmly, especially since his dad had been older than Ben is now when he’d first met mom.

“Listen,” his dad says, but the doorbell’s ringing and there’s a fifty percent chance that the person on the other side of the door is going to make him want to set himself on fire. He wants out of this conversation right now, so he heads out into the hallway.

He practically sags in relief when he sees the shadow through the clouded glass. That’s definitely Rey standing there, and when he opens the door, she smiles up at him.

“Welcome,” he says.

“I brought some flowers,” Rey says with a grin as she hands him the tupperware full of charoset. “They grow in the park by my building and my bees have been going mad for them now that it’s starting to get nice out.” 

Ben had helped Rey move three months ago, when it had been frigid and cold and Rey had been so very worried about getting her bees installed properly. Clearly they had survived the move, though, and Ben gives her a fond smile and closes the door behind her.

“Can I take your coat?” he asks because of course his mother wouldn’t forgive him if he didn’t. Rey hands him the flowers, which are deep and purple and look sort of like lilies. They smell unlike anything he’s ever smelled before in his life, heady and rich in a mostly indescribable way. He likes them. He doesn’t usually care about the way that flowers smell, but these ones—these ones he wants to bury his face in. 

Rey slips out of the coat, and his eyes do the thing he always tries to get them not to do and drip down her form as she throws the coat over the coatrack by the door. Her frame is wiry, strong, her breasts small, and her ass in those slacks are perfect and round. Ben swallows.

_ Keep it in your pants. You’re not gonna help anything if they see you looking at her like this. _

“This way,” he says, his voice low. He feels a little bit hot around the collar and he’s not even wearing a tie. Has Rey always looked like this? Has her hair always been this shiny, have her lips always been this pink? He wants to lick every freckle on her nose.

What the fuck?

He takes a long slow breath.

The flowers tickle his nose. 

They smell perfect; they smell like Rey.

“Let’s get these into water,” he says gruffly. It’s like his voice has dropped another octave since the last time he spoke. Rey nods, and he leads her through the house into the dining room where he finds one of the nice crystal vases and then heads into the kitchen.

“Out,” his mother barks.

“Rey brought flowers. I’m getting a vase for them,” he says. 

“Ben?” his mother glances at him, frowning. Then her eyes drop to the flowers in his hands.

She snatches them away with a look of horror on her face and hurries to the back door and tugs it open and makes to throw the flowers outside.

“Mom what are you—”

“Leia?” he hears his dad say on the other side of the door where he’d probably been taking the garbage out as the flowers hit him in the face.

“—doing?”

Then, slowly, he hears his father say, “Oh no.”

“Did she get these from the park?” his mother asks, her voice thick and her eyes not leaving his dad’s face. 

“Yes,” comes Rey’s voice from behind him and Ben looks down at her. There’s this crevice where her collarbone dips towards her neck. He wants to lick it.

What is going on?

He feels like he’s high, the way she seems brighter than the rest of the room. He feels like he’s going to explode. And the longer he looks at her, the longer his pants feel uncomfortably tight around the waist like he’s fourteen again and his body just does things for some reason. 

“Honey,” he hears his mother say, strangled, and he can’t for the life of him tell who she’s talking to because he won’t look away from Rey and her tone isn’t clear. Rey’s looking up at him, curiously.

“Are you ok?” she asks him. “You’re looking a bit feverish.”

He’s feeling a bit feverish. He’s feeling—he’s—

“The flowers from the park,” his mother continues, her voice strangled. “They’re...they’re aphrodisiacs.”

“What?” Ben snaps in horror, finally looking at his mom.

He wishes he hadn’t. 

His dad is standing there with one of the biggest erections Ben’s ever seen in his life, looking like he’s trying not to pounce.

“They don’t affect everyone,” his mother continues in that strangled voice of hers. “But…”

But it’s enough. 

And his dad snaps. He grabs Leia’s arm and drags her sideways past Ben and Rey, tugging her towards the stairs and, ultimately, the bedroom erection first. “Someone call Luke and tell him to turn back!” his mother calls, and Ben groans at that thought.

Clearly there’s not going to be a seder tonight.

And the longer he just stands there, the more he feels like he’s going to fall apart. Even without the flowers that smell like Rey right under his nose, she’s all he can think about—or at least, all he can think about that’s not how tight his pants are, how if she looks down he’ll probably die of humiliation, how fuck, fuck, fuck, he wants to—he wants—he’s always wanted—

“Rey,” he lets out in a strangled voice.

He can’t look at her. If he looks at her he’s going to pounce on her, bend her over a table, lose himself completely. But the longer he just stands there, the more he’s having trouble forming cohesive arguments as to why he shouldn’t.

_ Consent, _ he thinks over and over and over again.  _ She’s your friend. She’s never going to want you that way. _

“I texted Luke,” he hears her say as though from a mile off. That’s right—she knows him from the yoga studio she goes to.

“Thanks.”

“Ben?”

“You should go.”

There’s a long pause. The longest of pauses. Ben’s never known a pause so long in his entire life. And then his heart beats again.

“Do you want me to?”

“Rey, I’m this close to forgetting why I shouldn’t bend you over a table. Just—”

Another long heartbeat. Or maybe a short one. His heart is pounding in his chest after all. If he doesn’t get upstairs and start jacking off immediately he doesn’t know what’ll happen. He feels like a monster, a degenerate.

Somewhere above him, he starts to hear the rhythmic banging of a headboard.

And then, improbably, Rey’s hand is in his. “Let me help, then,” she says, her voice low now too.

“Rey,” he begins, not even sure he can form words because the only thing he wants to do right now is devour her.

But he doesn’t have to think of words. Her lips are on his throat and he snaps.

How he manages to get them up to his childhood bedroom, he doesn’t really know. He’s not really aware of anything except how hot her mouth is around his tongue, about how her legs are snapped around his waist as he carries her. He’s aware of her tangled hands in his hair, of the  _ oomph _ she makes when he deposits her onto the bed, but he’s definitely not aware of the details required to understand how their clothes begin to come off. 

They don’t come off fully, anyway. His pants are around his knees, his shirt is still buttoned as his fist tightens around his throbbing, needy cock and he should—there should—there’s got to be—

Foreplay. Foreplay, right? Because she’s probably not ready. Wet, but not ready. Ahh fuck. 

He spreads her legs and  _ fuck _ , the smell of her—that’s what those flowers smelled like, perfect and heady and earthy—like nectar, like wine. 

He doesn’t need to be aware of the details of how his face gets between her legs. That’s pretty obvious, that one moment he’s looking at her and the next he’s buried there, lost as he drinks her down, as his tongue swipes up and down and in and around in time with his own hand pumping at his dick, seeking out every drop of her as she gasps somewhere on the bed above him, moans his name. 

Her fingers feel so good in his hair as she tugs at his scalp as though trying to pull his tongue deeper into her flesh. Maybe he should want to be gentle with her, but he doesn’t know what gentleness is anymore—if he ever knew. He only knows that all he can do is press the flat of his tongue against her as she writhes and arches. Her hips won’t stay still so he presses a hand down on her lower abdomen and holds her there.

“Ben,” she groans. “Ben—Ben please.”

_ Please what? _

“Please more, please I—”

She’s so soft. And warm. And beautiful. She’s so, so beautiful as she starts to tremble and shake and gasp for air, as the muscles of her sex start to flex and throb around him and her groans fill the bedroom for longer than a heartbeat.

And he can’t take it anymore. His dick is almost painfully swollen, and he crawls up Rey’s body—relaxed now and he lines himself up and in he goes. She sighs a little bit and her arms run up and down his spine, her hands trailing fire in their wake as he begins to thrust and thrust into her.

There’s losing yourself and there’s finding yourself. And maybe he’s high out of his mind or having some sort of allergic reaction, but there’s something deep down inside of him that he knows will never be the same now that he’s been inside her. There’s some part of him in his lower stomach that knows, just knows, that this is right. That this is what right is supposed to be. That Rey murmuring incoherent words into his ears, little strings of  _ that’s right _ s and  _ yes _ es and  _ god you feel so good _ as the bedframe knocks against the wall and his breath gets louder and more erratic—this is what it’s supposed to be.

Her and him and nothing else.

Him in her.

Her in him.

At some point he’d buried his face into her neck, but suddenly he wants to see her eyes. He wants to see if she’s looking at him the way her voice sounds, or if there’s horror and repulsion and  _ you’re a monster _ in them.

He pulls back and looks down at her, and before he can even take in her expression she’s surged up to kiss him, her tongue dancing with his, her arms tightening around his neck and suddenly, improbably, she’s pushing him onto his back, flexing her hips, her cunt around him as she rides and rides and rides. Her breasts are coming loose from her bra and they’re starting to bounce up and down and suddenly he hears the words coming out of her mouth in a new way.

“Be with me,” she’s moaning, lost in it too, and he wonders if she’d been affected by the pollen too. “Ben, be with me. Please.”

“I’m here,” he hears himself groan. “I’m here, Rey. I’m here. I’m—”

And she’s back on her back now, her legs up on either side of his chest as she whimpers and clings to him. There are tears on her face and he can’t for the life of him tell if they’ve dripped down from her eyes or dropped from his own because she has to feel it, has to feel the rightness of all this, the connection, the sheer fucking force of what the two of them are now that they’re together like this…

“I love you.” 

He doesn’t mean to say it but he can’t even feel bad about it. It’s the truth, even if he’s lost in all this, even if he’s high, or having an allergic reaction, or whatever the fuck is going on. He loves her. He’s loved her from the first moment he saw her, and maybe he just never let himself believe he could have her, but now he does. He has hope. He has the firm, fiery faith that she wants him too.

“Say that when you mean it,” he hears her say. “Say that when you’re not whatever you are. Please Ben. Please, say it then.”

Is she—

She can’t be—

Is she—

And he’s coming harder than he’s ever come in his entire life, every nerve ending alight with her, and him, and the bright reality of them, the bright possibility of a future, of next year in Jerusalem and Rey in his arms from now until eternity. He’s pretty sure his lips are still declaring love to her as he rubs them against her neck, as every muscle in his body trembles and as he tries so hard not to collapse on her, to crush her to the bed.

The details are hazy—how he ends up next to her, curled around her, consciousness dissipating, but he thinks he hears her whisper to the dark, “I love you too, Ben,” before everything fades away.


	2. Chapter 2

Sweetness drops from your lips, O bride; Honey and milk are under your tongue; And the scent of your robes is like the scent of Lebanon.

— Shir HaShirim, Chapter 4

Ben is so _warm_. Maybe it’s whatever the reaction he’d had to those flowers was, or maybe it’s that she sleeps under blankets that are too thin every night, but he’s just so warm and it’s—

Well, it makes it hard to sleep.

Not that Rey thinks she could sleep.

She doesn’t know if she’ll ever sleep again.

Her mind won’t stop reeling.

Ben Solo had been exposed to an aphrodesiac, had eaten her out like his life depended on it, and then proceeded to fuck her until he told her he _loved_ her, came, and then passed right out.

No, Rey’s never going to sleep ever again.

 _He was high,_ she tells herself over and over again. _He was high, or he was having an allergic reaction._ Those flowers had clearly altered his brain in some way or another. 

But still, he wouldn’t have said it if he hadn’t meant it in some way, right Down that road lay only torment, but Rey found it hard to escape from the thought when Ben was lying there curled around her, one arm resting on her hip, the other under her neck, snoring lightly into the back of her neck.

 _Not for me,_ she tells herself so she won’t be disappointed when, after he wakes up, it’s not just that he apologizes for his behavior and says they’re better off friends, but probably stops texting her entirely.

The corners of her eyes prickle. _You don’t get nice things, Rey Johnson._

She’d just wanted to do something nice for Passover. She’d wanted to be there because Ben hates being alone with his uncle and only his parents as a buffer, because she wanted to share looks with him across the table and have him know that it would be ok because how many times had he done that for her? She’d wanted to smile, and laugh, and ask dumb goy questions, and let his mother fawn over her so she could pretend, for a moment, that maybe…

Ok she liked Ben.

She’d been friends—sort of—with Ben for years. She wouldn’t call what they’d had at first a friendship, but it had grown into something deep, something that was hard to describe to her other friends who didn’t understand it. Which was how she’d come, one drunk night in the rain, to realize that it wasn’t friendship at all. It was love. It was horrible, hopeless love because Ben didn’t look at her like that, and probably never would, because why would anyone, much less Ben, who never seemed interested in anyone ever?

At least until tonight, when he’d popped an erection and said he’d bend her over the table if she’d let him. And she’d let him. And he’d said he loved her.

But friends say they love each other all the time. She tells Finn she loves him like twice a day. 

But she and Ben—they don’t do that. Probably because she loves him. And maybe because he loves her.

He stirs around her and stops breathing, which is how she knows he’s awake. 

Then he groans.

“You ok?” she asks him, swallowing her nerves. She doesn’t let herself be nervous. Fuck it’s hard, but nervousness—that makes everything ten times worse, always. 

Ben has rolled away from her now and has buried his face in the pillow behind them and she’s sure if he could he’d melt through the floorboards. 

“I’m so sorry,” she hears him say, muffled. “Rey—I’m so—”

“Don’t,” she says dully. _If he’d meant it, it’d have been the first words out of his mouth._

_You don’t get to have nice things._

“I just attacked you,” he says, sounding horrified.

“I offered.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounds dead. It’s all she can do not to cry. “I brought the damn flowers.”

“What’s wrong?” And his arms are around her again, and it’s like he’s forgotten they’re half-naked, and that he’d come inside her, and told her he loved her. For all she knows he has. He was high, or whatever. “Go on,” he says quietly. “Say it.”

“What do you want me to say?” she asks him. God she’s going to cry. He’s doing that thing that she loves about him where he unearths that piece of pain and won’t let go of it until she’s named it, where he supports her more than she knows what to do with, where he listens to her and tells her it’s going to be ok. 

But it’s not going to be ok.

Because he doesn’t love her. He doesn’t love her but now she knows what it feels like to have his lips like lilies on her skin, to have her heart racing and her body aching for more than she knows how to want.

“I want you to say what you’re thinking,” he says and it sounds almost like he’s pleading. “Say it.”

She takes a long slow breath. She doesn’t know what he remembers having said. That’s how she can do this.

“Do you remember what you told me?” she asks him slowly and he stops breathing. Which could mean anything at all. Her back is to him still, so she has no idea how he’s reacting, what he could be thinking. 

“When I—” and he clears his throat because he can’t quite bring himself to say the words _came inside you_. 

She nods into the pillow and that’s all the answer she needs. He remembers having said it. He remembers having lived it. 

“Rey,” he begins, and Rey pulls herself out of his arms, rooting around on the ground in the darkening bedroom for her clothes. She doesn’t want to be here when he tells her that that was the pollen talking, that that was his dick talking, that that was who knows what the fuck. Who cares. “Rey,” he repeats, sounding more anxious than she’d heard him in a while.

“It’s fine,” she says. “I consented, right? It’s fine. I’m just going to head home though.” And of course, on the other side of the wall, the headboard starts to bang again. “Goodnight, Ben.”

She finishes tugging up her pants and pulls her shirt on over her head as she leaves Ben in the bed and hurries down the stairs. She walks through the house to the kitchen. She’ll get those damn flowers out of here, especially if _that’s_ the effect that they have. She should probably also take the charoset she’d brought with her because for all she knows, her bees have been making honey with that pollen and it’ll just reinfect them all again.

There are tears on her face as she grabs the flowers from the floor where they’d fallen and been left unceremoniously, then the tupperware from the kitchen counter, and marches back towards the door. She grabs her coat and steps out onto the front porch and pulls out her phone to call an Uber. 

The closest one is ten minutes away and she sighs and sits down on the steps. Ben will have thought she’d gone.

He hadn’t come after her, so really he must not have meant the words. 

She takes a deep shuddering breath. 

Fuck it, she’s probably just hungry.

She was supposed to be at a seder, eating and laughing and smiling and sharing looks with Ben, running interference in the war of attrition between him and his uncle, smiling at him, being quietly, desperately, unembarrassingly in love with him. 

It’s when she starts to hear her own tears that she rips off the lid of the charoset and digs her hand into it and who the fuck cares if it’s sticky from the honey she’d put in because she’d wanted Ben to try her honey. If she’s going to sob loudly on Ben’s parents porch while they fuck on the second floor, she’s going to at least eat her fucking charoset.

It’s sweet, and spicy, and delicious. Not what she’d call filling, but definitely what she’d call distracting. She doesn’t think she’s ever tasted anything quite like this before—sweet and spicy and heady and sort of like the way Ben’s tongue had tasted when he’d been kissing her.

It’s not a helpful thought.

But at least it’s not making her cry as she takes another bite. No, she’s thinking of the way his body had moved over hers, the way she wishes he had taken his top off because she _knows_ he’s ripped—she’s seen his arms, she’s seen the way his chest muscles sometimes make shirt buttons strain a little—but she didn’t get to see it, didn’t get to lick her way across it. 

God she wants to. Why doesn’t she ever get what she wants?

She’s stopped eating the charoset and it takes her a long moment to realize that she’s shifting her hips so that her labia are rubbing together. Her labia that are still wet and somehow only getting wetter and—

She looks down at the charoset in horror. 

The pollen had done nothing to her—nothing at all.

But if this is _anything_ like the weed brownies she’d had this was going to hit her hard, and strong, and last a long fucking time.

Ok, so maybe it’s panic that sends her back into the house, back up the stairs. It’s got to be panic, and when she panics, she finds Ben because Finn’ll be supportive, Poe’ll ask at what directions to aim the cannons, but Ben—Ben always gets it. Gets her.

So she pelts up the stairs and shoves her way into his room where he’s lying, still not fully dressed, staring at the ceiling and it takes her a moment to process as she closes the door behind her and lets the charoset fall to the ground in its tupperware that his face is a bit damp in the twilight.

“Ben,” she groans.

He’s already sitting up, the blanket still covering his undoubtedly still bared hips and he’s staring at her and his lips are so wide and dark and his eyes are so soft and she just pelts at him and throws her arms around him as she fumbles with her pants. 

She needs to get them off, needs to now, they’re so tight around her, itchy and she just wants Ben, Ben—please, please you have to help, the charoset.

“The charoset?” he says, bewildered, which is how she realizes she’d said the last bit out loud. Was this what it had felt like when he’d said he loved her? Had he just been saying what was on his mind and she’d gone and not let him speak because she’d been too afraid of—

Ben’s lips are on her neck, his fingers are at the top of her pants, helping hers get them off and she gasps, and moans as his fingers slip between her legs. 

“Please,” she begs.

“I’m here, sweetheart,” he tells her. And yes, he is. 

This time, it’s her pants that aren’t all the way off but she finds she doesn’t care because the only thing that matters is that Ben’s inside her again, pressing into her and that his lips are tasting hers, or hers are tasting his, and he tastes like cinnamon and apples and honey and walnuts and oh, oh, please.

Her body arches up towards his. It’s not fair that they’re both wearing shirts, but she doesn’t stop kissing him to tell him that. She does whimper and fumble at the buttons of his and he gets the idea. Oh thank god he gets the idea because she’s a puddle, a wreck. She feels like she can’t feel anything at all because she’s feeling everything at once and somehow everything is Ben.

Ben’s hands as he tugs her shirt back up over her head; Ben’s lips as he sucks on her neck, her earlobe, her lips; Ben’s chest—bare at fucking last—pressed against hers, hot and sweaty, his heart pounding inside it so hard she can feel it against her own ribs; and Ben’s dick, long and hard and thrusting into her so fast that their legs are making those obscene slapping sex noises and she can feel his balls knocking into her ass as he goes, and goes, and goes.

And oh thank god for him going because all Rey can do is lie there. This is definitely what edibles had felt like, except way hornier. She’s noticing the way the street lamps outside the window cast creeping shadows along the wall and the tree branches sort of look like her and Ben, entwined and natural—a force of nature or something.

Ben’s moaning her name now. Moaning and panting and moaning some more. He can’t seem to decide if he wants to bury his face in her neck or keep kissing her and she can’t really complain about either of them. He’s hers for a moment more. He’s hers, and he gets it.

And she gets it too.

What did it matter if he’d been high? She’d say it too, maybe. Just to have it in the air now. Just to have it be real. Because it is real for her—and she’ll never be able to unfeel his dick sliding in and out of her, never be able to untaste the taste of his sweat and saliva, the gentle impact of his balls against her skin.

“God, I love you Rey. So much. So much.”

He keeps saying that. He’s saying that sober, just like she’d wanted. She wishes she could open her mouth and say it back into his lips but she keeps kissing him instead. The only thing she can do is kiss him, and wrap her legs more firmly around his hips and pull him deeper into her.

She feels like she’s blooming, like she’s blossoming when she comes. She feels like her petals are stretching out towards the open air for the first time, like she is alive and beautiful and things she doesn’t know how to articulate because all she can really think is, _Oh._

This was how it was supposed to be.

Before had been good, but this—

This is transcendent, somehow. 

And it doesn’t fade. Her body has relaxed, has sunk back into Ben’s mattress, but the need is still there. There, but gentler. Sort of a nudging, _oh, you can take a break if you like but he’s still inside you and you should keep it that way._

Ben is watching her. He’s still stiff, and he could be continuing but he’s paused, his expression unreadable.

And maybe it’s because she feels relaxed, and safe, and taken care of that it doesn’t feel frightening this time. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you love me?”

He drops his lips to hers in perhaps the slowest kiss she’s ever had. His tongue traces her lips, his breath tickles at her face and the longer he kisses her, the more her heart starts to race. And not a _he hasn’t replied_ anxiousness—oh no. _He is replying. This is him replying._

And she lets him reply, and replies in kind, and rolls him onto his back so that she can sink onto him again, so that he can watch her fuck him, watch her love him, watch her, and this, and them—watch it all be real.

“I love you,” she tells him and watches as this look of beautiful elation stretches across his face. His lips relax into a smile that illuminates her world, his eyes soften, and his hands shake a little bit on her hips. “I love you so much, Ben. I always have.”

And he’s coming inside her again, and pulling her close to his chest so his lips can feast on hers once more, his fingers twining in her hair before dropping down to her cheeks and rubbing up and down again. 

“I love you,” he says, breathless, “I meant it. I’ve always loved you, Rey. I don’t think I could ever stop loving you.”

She keeps rocking her hips against his until long after he’s slackened within her, and when he pulls himself loose, she rubs herself against his thigh. He frowns.

“Your head hasn’t cleared?” he asks her.

“My head has,” she says. “Sort of.” She keeps rocking her hips. “I just don’t know that it’s done.” 

“Well,” he practically purrs, “No rest for the wicked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Persimonne for doing a lovely commission for this chapter ([here](https://twitter.com/crossing_winter/status/1252369666313342976) and [here](https://shmisolo.tumblr.com/post/615958118976962560/ben-is-so-warm-maybe-its-whatever-the-reaction)) <3

**Author's Note:**

> kinks(h?)ame me [here](http://linktr.ee/crossingwinter)


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